


Wanna come for tea at mine?

by Papapaldi



Series: Series 12 [6]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Post The Timeless Children, Yaz and the fam grieve the Doctor, Yaz's perspective, a love letter to Yaz and 13's relationship throughout series 11 and 12, thasmin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:22:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22979803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papapaldi/pseuds/Papapaldi
Summary: “Do you know what the hardest about knowing you was? Letting you go. Letting go of the Doctor is so, so hard.” - Bill PottsYaz tries to adjust to life back on Earth, and remembers her time spent with the Doctor; the best person she ever met. The person she left to face her death, alone.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan & Graham O'Brien & Ryan Sinclair, Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Series: Series 12 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647982
Comments: 7
Kudos: 45





	Wanna come for tea at mine?

**Author's Note:**

> I've only written this first bit but have plans for a lil story to begin the long, long dark (before the special)  
> YAZ THINKS THE DOCTOR IS DEAD SDJKGJKHKJLDHJLF ANGST TIME
> 
> Edit: yeah I had plans for this fic but I still haven't written it and don't know if I ever will so enjoy these 500 words instead djkfghdfkjgh

The Doctor’s hand slips out of her grip; dirt clinging to sweat in lines like cracks in mud, red dust under the nails like blood. The Doctor snaps away from her touch. Her eyes are intense; jagged fractals, verglas tears on the surface of her eyes. They’re pleading. Stern, but begging – begging her to go and to stay all at once. 

“Get off me, Yaz!” she says, sharp. She pulls her hand away, energy brimming through her limbs, trembling with the need to run, to fight, to  _ do.  _ To stay with her, whatever happens. To help, and never refuse. The intensity, the anger wrought tight and winding through the muscles in the Doctor’s face, slacken and fall to a pale, pleading stare. In that moment, all the Doctor’s mystery is stripped away – no past, or age, or barely contained anger – just her, and that loneliness. The sort that flashed terrible in wide, dark eyes; captivating, moving. “Please.” 

She can’t move – can only look at her, and try desperately to convey with the tears forming in her eyes all the things she wants to say to her. It can’t end now, because they’ve only just found her again – lying on a circular panel of golden light, making her glow something holy. The smile, even brighter;  _ my fam.  _ It can’t end now, because Yaz finally understands what’s had the Doctor wound so tight, pressed into a quiet, simmering strand of anger; coiled, snapping, striking out – it was grief. A grief so unimaginable, so entirely insurmountable; her entire species, dead. Her entire species, risen again in a form so mockingly grotesque She understands, and she wants to comfort her, but instead must, cruelly, content herself to watch her leave to face it all alone. To burn, alone. To choose, alone. 

“Yaz,” Ryan’s voice sounds so distant. Resolute, tired. “Come on.” 

Yaz stares at her, slowly edging back. She doesn’t want to blink, doesn’t want to waste these final moments of seeing her. She savours the sight, like gazing into the sun before it dips below the horizon, revelling in the blinding light. Minutely, she nods, giving the Doctor the permission she so desires, but would disobey regardless of its offerance. She could dash forwards – cling to the Doctor like she desperately wants to. They could do it, all of them, overpower her, make her stay. Make her safe.

“Live great lives,” she whispers; hoarse, fading, turning. Her back to them all, walking away; up to the summit, and further, through the sky, to the stratosphere. Alone. Yaz’s eyes follow her as she leaves, eyes trained on every part of her they can reach – the shock of golden hair, fleeting out of sight; the coattails, silver in the light, brushed in the breeze of a purposeful stride. She’s gone, and Yaz feels Kosharmis come to stand beside her, ready to grab her, she thinks, if she tries to run. She doesn’t run, though the energy to do so is woven tight through every muscle, every instinct; to run, and to help. To follow the Doctor. 

  
But she doesn’t; not this time. Not this time, and never again.  It’s the hardest thing about knowing her – always has been. Letting go of the Doctor is so, so hard. 


End file.
